


praying for love (paying in naivety)

by bloodinfection



Series: seconds late, always late [2]
Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Angst, Desperation, Gentle Sex, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, Kinda, M/M, Marking, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Unrequited Love, but innit that he's a bit of a dick anyway??, ngl jim is kind of a Dick in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22491052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodinfection/pseuds/bloodinfection
Summary: It's always Ryan who calls and yet, even as his phone lies dead on the kitchen counter, here's Jim, with his stupid sad eyes and his stupid smile and he's sostupid.
Relationships: Jim Halpert/Ryan Howard
Series: seconds late, always late [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1412518
Comments: 13
Kudos: 123





	praying for love (paying in naivety)

**Author's Note:**

> aye cheers it's been much longer than i thought it would be, which i am deeply sorry for xx
> 
> i'm equally sorry for what happens in this
> 
> also excuse all the — i cant have my mans finish a sentence

It's always Ryan who calls, even when he knows every time is the last time.

He calls and Jim answers and Ryan makes sure desperation colors his voice just right, even when he knows he should stop.

He calls and Jim comes over to his shitty apartment and his touches are always rough and hungry, even though it's not healthy for either of them.

"Do you only fuck me when you're high?" Jim asks one night before he devours Ryan whole, and in his flurried mind Ryan can only think _damn, they're onto me_.

It doesn't change anything, though, the question or his answer, because Jim still fucks him like he needs it to live, 'til everything aches and Ryan can barely stand with how his muscles turn to jelly. Jim's careful not to leave marks anywhere clothes won't cover. Ryan mourns the loss but he gets it, he does. They're on thin ice here, with this, one misstep could take them down and he knows it'd be for the better, but he couldn't say it out loud. Not when he wants it to not be true so badly.

He calls and Jim comes over and dirties his soul and later, at work, they chum it up so Pam doesn't think it's odd when they're _just going out for a couple beers, you know_ every other day.

When Ryan looks into the mirror he doesn't recognise himself in the reflection.

The world's a bit fuzzy around the edges. Nothing more than a blur, these few months that he's been back from New York. It might be the steep downfall of his life. Might be how he's coked out of his mind most days. Might be that he's in love.

It's probably the drugs.

He's not in love.

He couldn't. He doesn't _do_ that.

His life lacks structure, is all this is, he tells himself. He'd had a safe routine going in NYC, and after it came crumbling down on him it's been difficult to get back into the swing of things. But damn him if he'd gotten into so much debt to be a bigshot businessman and he can't even save his failing life. He needs a new game plan.

Most days, he gets home and holds his breath for a second while he takes a gamble turning the lights on—making sure the power's still on. He's not really great with the whole paying the bills situation at the moment. Doesn't help that he's burnt all of his bridges before heading up to New York. Not many people left willing to make sure he stays alive.

New game plan is _any distraction is a good distraction._

So he gets home and he's ready for a bump or two or twelve. He downs a pitcher of margarita that's seventy percent tequila and twenty percent sugar, until he blacks out and doesn't have to deal with the comedown from the coke. It's simple. It's efficient.

If Jim's coming over Ryan will tap into his supply of colorful smiley-faced pills and pop a few, because Jim can't tell the difference between a cocaine high and a molly high, and it's whatever. Not like he cares.

Sometimes he still goes up to New York and lets strangers fuck him in dingy alleys, up against walls. He likes to think it makes Jim jealous when he's been whoring out. He's a romantic like that.

At work, all he gets is Kelly, so he goes after her with all that he has. She's loud and annoying and a reasonably good fuck and also not what he needs, at all. Or maybe she is exactly what he needs, with all the talk of marriage and kids and together-forever, because deep down Ryan wants a forever, and once he's desperate enough, he might even settle for her. If he doesn't blow his brains out before that.

He makes sure Jim's eyes follow them as they sneak out to the warehouse or the bathroom or make out in the break room. It's easy to act like he can't keep his hands to himself when he's with her. If Kelly can tell that his craving for closeness isn't because he has her but rather, because of what he doesn't have, she doesn't say anything. Her lipstick lingers on his skin when he drops off papers at Jim's desk. It's a small comfort compared to the way light catches in the diamond of Pam's ring when she answers the phone, or how she rests her head on Jim's shoulder in meetings, like it's the simplest of things.

 _I'm the other woman_ , he thinks bitterly.

Ryan can't have nice things, but he knows that. Turns out most things can be made much nicer when he scrapes by on cocaine and girly drinks. So, really, it's fine.

 _It's fine_ , he chants to himself hunched over the sink in his dark bathroom, the only light coming from the living room. He'd forgotten to change the bulb. He forgets these things a lot.

Shadows make his face seem strange.

His cheeks are slimmer, the lines on his forehead deeper. Briefly, he wonders how much weight he's lost replacing actual meals with instant noodles and coke. (It's bound to be a legitimate dieting plan at this point. Kelly would be all over that.) His skin is stretched thin over the edges of his bones, pale save for the dark circles around his eyes.

A lifetime ago the eyes staring back at him in mirrors were bright, full of hope, of ambition, of _something_. Now he can't remember the last time they weren't black and chillingly cold. Dead.

God, but he's not even thirty.

His eyes are cold but a fire burns him up from the inside, until he's nothing but ash and rubble, nothing more than an empty shell.

He looks hollow. He feels hollow.

Without the acquired artificial sharpness his mind is just so fucking slow, focused on the most useless things, so he can't think about anything else. Things like what he could be doing with his time that wouldn't make him miserable. Like how much of his stupid Xbox fund he'd used up on cocaine.

All of it, it was all of it, all of his spending money dumped into a drug habit, because that's the kind of person he is. Because being a responsible adult with a savings plan doesn't compare to only having to sleep two hours a day.

Because he can't have nice things.

Maybe the business degree wasn't worth it after all.

A knock on the door startles him, loud as ever through the paper-thin walls, because everything in his life is paper-thin. He's glad he doesn't have to look at himself anymore. Any distraction is a good distraction.

"Hey, stranger."

Maybe not _any_ distraction.

"You—"

"Yeah."

Jim lets himself into the apartment like he owns the place, even locks the door, and Ryan's—

"Why, why, why—" Lost. Confused. Tongue-tied. Too sober for this.

It's always Ryan who calls and yet, even as his phone lies dead on the kitchen counter, here's Jim, with his stupid sad eyes and his stupid smile and he's so _stupid_.

"Missed you," Jim says and his hands are big and warm when they enclose Ryan's face. It almost sounds real. "It's been a rough couple days."

 _Try months_ , Ryan's mind supplies helpfully. He wants to lean in and squeeze his eyes shut and just let Jim do whatever, get lost in the dark until the tightness in his chest subsides and he can breathe again. Instead, he grabs handfuls of the coat Jim's wearing and hides his face in the folds of fabric.

He can feel Jim rub soothing circles on his back and for just a second Ryan thinks he could have this, they could be this.

In the end, though, he knows Jim's only here for one thing, and he can't be mad when it's all this ever was.

He steps back and tries to collect himself while Jim hangs up his coat. They're both still in their work clothes, ties and all. It makes Ryan uneasy.

He's about to ask what's wrong, _why're you here_ , but Jim's back in his space and the kiss they share is far sweeter than Ryan expects, than he deserves.

They've done this so many times he can almost fall into a rhythm. He braces himself for an edge to creep into the kiss, for the desperate pull of possessive hands trying to rip him to pieces, but—the way Jim's fingers tangle in his hair, not to pull but just to hold him close, it's—

"Let's take it slow, yeah?" Jim says against his lips, and his voice sounds tight, but Ryan barely hears it over his blood rushing loud as a river in his ears.

 _Oh, no_ , he thinks as they kiss, because he's always lived by the rule of not getting his hopes up to avoid disappointment and now, suddenly, his hopes are stacked sky-high.

And maybe, just this once, he lets himself hope.

Because Ryan can't have nice things, really have them to keep as his own, but Jim's letting him borrow one for a night, and that's enough for someone who's used to having nothing.

He's practically giddy when he throws his arms around Jim's neck, like they're in the fucking Notebook or Titanic or whatever bullshit movie Kelly made him watch and he pretended not to like. He did like them. He likes this.

"What're you smiling about?" Jim asks, almost an accusation, but he's smiling, too.

"You."

Ryan tries to steer them towards the couch, because taking it slow is not really his thing, and also because there's too much stuff on his counters to fuck there. He's a mess like that. It's difficult to move, though, with Jim's hands all over his body, even more so with Jim all over his mind, and suddenly, for just a short moment, the slowness and sobriety are sweeter than any high he's ever ridden.

 _That's a bad thought._ It's almost like he's getting—

Attached.

Before he can panic about the tightness in his throat, the frightening pull of affection that doesn't let him breathe, his feet are off the ground, face smushed against the side of Jim's neck. One of Jim's hands is under his thighs, the other splayed along his protruding ribs, and he doesn't think he's ever been held like this before, not since he was a kid. Hell, not then, either. Jim spins around once, careful not to crash into furniture, and Ryan holds onto him tightly, tries to keep the stars out of his eyes. He can't help but laugh at how ridiculous they are. The sound gets lost in Jim's skin.

"Put me _down_ , you maniac," he manages, though his voice is muffled. But Jim doesn't, and Ryan feels like he's going to implode.

"Careful, we're crossing the threshold," Jim whispers right into his ear. Suddenly, as they enter the dimly lit bedroom, Ryan's contented giggle dies in his throat. Goosebumps break out over his skin instead, a shiver creeping up his spine. He's fairly sure his knees would go weak if he were standing.

He half-expects Jim to lose the gentle facade and maybe—throw him onto the bed, take him, use him. Like they always do. It's what Ryan knows. Frankly, it's what he deserves. This, this new thing, the way Jim's hands unhurriedly undo his tie like they have all the time in the world, the little kisses, the sheer affection. God, but it's so _good_.

Jim sits atop his thighs, awkwardly hunched over with his long legs and arms and all. He holds Ryan's heated face between his palms, keeping him from shying away from his feverish gaze. Ryan finds himself quite overwhelmed, overcome with—

He leans in for a kiss before he can say anything stupid.

And Ryan likes kissing, he does, likes the way his lips tingle after and how sweet Jim is on his tongue. He likes the lasting throb of pain after he flashes teeth, teasing, and finally gets Jim to bite down. Ryan enjoys being kissed.

He doesn't, however, particularly care for the fullness in his chest, or the constant trickle of tender sentiment that queues up at the forefront of his hazy mind. Ryan really wishes Jim would get his dick out already, so he could focus on the physical side of things rather than this pathetic wallowing.

Desperately sucking in a lungful of cool air, he tips his head back, hoping he has enough willpower left to shut the _fuck_ up without the seal of Jim's lips.

And, God, Jim's lips are scorching hot where they move to rest against the side of his jaw, before they slide down, a delicious pressure on the skin of Ryan's throat. The scrape of teeth, soothed by an apologetic tongue, and Ryan lets himself moan like the whore he is at the dull pain of being—

 _Marked_.

He tries to sneak a hand between them, unbutton his shirt or maybe rip it to shreds, but Jim is quick to grab his wrists and guide them away. The mere suggestion of restraint is enough to make Ryan dizzy with need.

"C'mon, quit it," he says, breathless, and his heart is ready to tear a hole through his ribcage any moment now.

"Want you to feel good," Jim mumbles against one of Ryan's collarbones after he'd mercifully popped the first button of his shirt. "Want to make you feel good enough."

 _Fuck_ , Ryan thinks and, " _Fuck_ ," he tells Jim, the dying breath of a man that's lost his way.

The promise hangs between them, unfinished, but Ryan's head spins with it even so.

 _Good enough to love_.

So he lets Jim take his time, lets himself be driven crazy by slow deliberation, by wandering hands followed by a curious mouth.

A bitter paradox has him slowly rid of clothing, yet the fever burning him up seems only hotter, until the tight squeeze of desire turns his shuddering breaths into shallow panting. It feels like a small eternity before he's finally naked.

"Fuck me," he begs when Jim pushes his legs apart. "I'll _die_."

He could, too, with how hard his dick is against his quivering belly, and it's going to drive him insane, and he'll _die_.

But Jim, Jim's a cruel man. Jim stays fully dressed, up to the tie around his throat, done up with orchestrated carelessness. Jim kisses the backs of Ryan's thighs where they're bent up and spread apart. Jim presses slick fingers inside of him, over and over, when Ryan's more than ready, when he's needing and wanting and—

Jim lets Ryan fuck his fist and lays sweet, sweet kisses along the column of his neck when Ryan comes.

It's not the earth-shattering orgasm he aches for.

Ryan laughs, slightly out of breath. It's _hilarious_ , is what this is. "Fuck me now?"

Jim doesn't laugh, only raises an eyebrow in vague amusement. "Sure you can take it?"

"Bite me."

It's meant as a joke, no matter how much Ryan misses the pattern of teeth etched into his skin.

He gets Jim to undress, after some persuading, and there's come on the very tip of Jim's tie, and Ryan's burning, he's burning up alive. He'd have questioned his ability to get hard again this soon, with the whole nearing thirty thing, and, like, the drug addiction, but it doesn't seem to matter, not with Jim pressing hot and heavy against him. Certainly not with Jim dragging his fingers through the come on Ryan's stomach and—

"Jesus Christ."

Because Jim's fingers are _in_ him again, all—one two three— _four_ of them, wet with his own fucking _come_ , in him and out with diligent care and not a trace of urgency.

"Jesus _Christ_."

And this time, it's spoken against Jim's grinning mouth.

"You're so good, Ry."

Ryan gasps at Jim's words as much as he does at his touch, and then he moans, high and louder than is decent, when Jim finally settles between his open thighs.

It's a treat each time, watching Jim's face go minutely slack as he pushes in. It's a goddamn treasure, how he usually just starts moving, without a moment of hesitation, the way Ryan likes it.

He doesn't do that now.

No, because they're taking it _slow_ , so he takes his blessed fucking _time_ , buries his face against the crook of Ryan's neck and whispers sickeningly sweet nothings against his skin, like it doesn't matter. Like it doesn't make Ryan melt.

Somewhere, in another life, he could get used to this.

In this life, he thinks he's _addicted_ , to the timbre of Jim's voice, the warmth of his skin. To the way his words sound so sweet and genuine, like he means them, like this could be real.

Ryan—he wants to cry. He wants to scream and say things he'll regret, bare his heart and hope for the best.

But mostly he wants to _cry_.

Maybe he does, later, when Jim grabs his hips and fucks him like he means it, when Jim tells him how very _good_ he is and smooths a thumb over his cheek, and his eyes are warm and kind.

 _Good enough to love_.

Ryan clasps a hand over his mouth when he comes again, a violent sob shaking him as he rakes his nails over Jim's shoulder.

* * *

"I bought us a house," Jim says, his voice soft. Ryan props himself up to look at him, cocking his head slightly in momentary confusion. "For me and Pam. To live in."

When Ryan realises he's let his guard down, it's far too late. He feels his heart in his throat before it drops, sinks, leaves just a gaping hole of his insides. "Oh."

"Yeah." Sheets pool around Jim's waist as he sits up against the headboard. He doesn't look Ryan in the face. "It's a nice place. Used to be my parents'. You'd—actually, you probably wouldn't like it at all."

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. "Jim—"

"You know how—" Jim interrupts, and he looks almost composed, save for how his eyes are a bit more glossy than they usually are. "I always say it's the last time, and you tell me that you know but we—we never really mean it."

The bedside lamp flickers, almost menacingly. Ryan nods, careful to breathe steadily as gnawing emptiness consumes him from the inside out.

"I really, really need you to mean it this time."

Ryan's been punched before, in the face and the stomach and most other places, but the sharp pain he feels must be closer to getting shot, he decides. After a moment, an eternity, it dissipates into a numbness that overtakes his soul.

"Why?"

Jim finally turns to look at him. It sounds dumb, he knows it does, but there's a ringing in his ears that stifles the flow of his thoughts, and he can't get himself to care when everything around him shatters. He's not ready to let this go, he can't, _can't_ , not when he's just allowed himself some semblance of hope.

"Wh—do you really want me to say it?" Ryan has never wanted anything less, but he can't find his voice, can't move a muscle to shake his head. Jim takes the silence for approval. "Because I'm in love with the woman of my dreams, and we're getting married. And we're gonna be a family, yeah? I can't—keep doing this to her, it _kills_ me, Ry."

It's fair. It's old news, nothing Ryan hasn't considered before. Jim was always destined to live out the most cliché white picket fence fantasy, with the wife and the kids and the nine-to-five, and there was never a place for him in any of that, and really, he should move on. Should let Jim move on. God, it hasn't even been that long, why is it so—

"Stay." His throat tightens in protest. And, before he can stop himself, "Fuck, don't leave, anyone but you."

He can barely recognise himself in the words, in the pathetic, undignified sound of them.

"Ryan, you—we both knew this couldn't last, right?" He laughs a bit as he talks, like it's the most obvious thing.

Ryan blinks and prays the tears he's holding back don't fall, because he doesn't have any dignity anymore, but trying to rope Jim back in with crying would be too Kelly of him.

"I—" _am really, very in love with you._ He takes a shaky breath, searching for clarity, keeping his eyes firmly on the cracked ceiling. His first instinct is to fight—for what's his, and what could've been. He thinks about Pam's ring. _Don't be fucking dumb_. "Okay. Yeah, okay."

"Okay?"

Ryan nods. He lets his eyes slip shut, light dancing behind his eyelids. His head is pounding. There's a rustling of sheets next to him before the springs of his cheap mattress creak, released from under the weight of Jim's body for the last time.

Time doesn't seem to exist. Ryan sits in his bed, tired and naked and _fine_. He keeps himself in darkness, in this silent grieving. Counting his breaths, he listens as Jim collects his scattered clothing. His fucking _tie_ , probably, stained with Ryan's—

"Hey."

With a deep inhale, Ryan opens his eyes. They burn with the strain of muffled emotion.

Jim goes on one knee next to the bed and leans in to kiss him, excruciatingly slow, like Ryan's a wild animal that he doesn't want to scare.

But Ryan's fucking terrified.

He considers the possibility, of their last kiss, of a fairytale farewell, of _closure_. He considers his stupid feelings and the hope he so foolishly allowed himself to have and—

"See you around, Halpert."


End file.
